


Wicked Spirit

by Hiniwalay



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Rated T for George Wickham, References to Hamlet, incorporeal Wickham annoying the bloody #&£! out of Darcy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiniwalay/pseuds/Hiniwalay
Summary: There's a ghost haunting Darcy's waking hours, and he makes Darcy’s living hell.(Please, never speak of what happened with Elizabeth.)
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy & George Wickham
Comments: 34
Kudos: 59





	1. The Haunting of Darcy

In the summer of 1810, George Wickham died.

It was an anticlimactic event for such a dubious gentleman. He was drunk. He fell into the water. He drowned.

Darcy, his longtime companion, though long ceased to be friend, grieved the loss. So soon after his own father's death! However, he could not but feel guiltily relieved that Wickham would never avail the living at the church, and that, in some convoluted manner, for all his wicked propensities, he had gotten his just deserts.

That is, until Wickham came to haunt him, and only him. Immortal punishment was not, apparently, for the dead.

* * *

"Lovely, that one," remarked the bane of all gentlemanly existence. "Got a fine plump ass."

In a grand ball in London, nursing a glass of wine and hovering by the wall, Darcy glowered.

"Mmm, you see that? Spilling out of her dress? I should like to give them a squeeze"—translucent fingers demonstrated—"but a touch or press and her stays bursteth."

"Shut your trap, Wickham," Darcy muttered, obscuring the movement of his lips with the glass. He lately had become notorious for a nonexistent cough since he regularly hid his mouth behind a kerchief or a hand, but it was better to be thought sickly than mad.

Miraculously, the ghost of Wickham _did_ fall silent, contemplative expression washing over his phantom face.

"Thank you," Darcy sighed and sipped his wine.

"You know, I never liked them _too_ big—"

Perhaps, Darcy thought as he coughed to dislodge burning wine from his chest, it would be to great advantage if Wickham were to succeed in killing Darcy. Surely he could finally deal damage to Wickham if _he_ were a ghost as well.

* * *

“To be—” A palm rose into the air, wretched and trembling. “—or not to be.” The pale fist pulled back in time with a deep, shuddering breath. “That is the question.”

* * *

"She actually _fancies_ you, that one. God knows why."

Darcy looked askance and frowned. Deeper, that is. If he kept this up, he would develop premature lines. "She is a child."

"A debutante with but a year on Georgiana. Whom, I might add, has the looks of a woman. Mighty fine at that."

Her brother whirled on him, expression thunderous. "If you _dare—_ "

"What? Touch her?" he waggled his incorporeal fingers. "'Fraid I couldn't if I tried."

"Do not even _speak—_ "

"Can a man not compliment his godsister?"

Darcy faltered. "You have not acted her friend in an age."

"I assure you, my affection for her is as real as yours is."

This made Darcy pensive.

"But, if she should so _happen_ to fall in love with me, I shan’t say nay—"

Fitzwilliam Darcy strangled thin air; Wickham was smugly certain it was a perfectly unsatisfying sensation.

* * *

“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles...!”

* * *

“Mackay is attempting to cheat you,” he drawled, legs stretched out and arms propping his neck, as he floated under the gleaming hardwood ceiling.

Darcy's fancy quill stilled. “His father was a reputable tradesman.”

Wickham flipped over in the air and raised a brow. “And it follows that the son must be also?”

There was a long moment.

The papers shuffled. “What proof have you?”

In short order, the suspicious particulars, especially in the tradesman’s contacts and body language, were lazily detailed. Darcy would verify it for himself, of course. He was much too finicky for anything less. But for now, a warning would suffice.

There were mutterings and the scratch of pen over paper. It took several minutes of furious scribbling, but at last the man constrained to the floor relaxed his back and said nonchalantly—the closest he’d ever come to honestly thanking poor Wickham—“I suppose there are some benefits to befriending a scoundrel.”

Wickham shot him a winning smile.

* * *

“To die, to sleep—perchance, to dream!” howled the dead. “And by sleep we say to end the heartache...!”

A pillow thumped against the wall, but not before passing—harmlessly, unfortunately—through the flinching spectre. “Dash it, Wickham, you are botching it! If you _must_ disturb my repose with your dramatizing, do it properly!”

“Well, it is not as if I can turn the pages. Why don’t you show me how it’s done, eh?”

Darcy sat up fully and rubbed his annoyed eyes. “You are a _terrible_ Hamlet.”

Wickham sighed. “Indeed, I have not the temperament. ‘Tis you who makes a good tortured soul.”

The book lay innocuously on the tea table. “I am _not_ reading for your sport.”

“Come on,” cajoled the other, grinning madly. “We both know you are _itching_ to try the ghost scenes with a proper _ghost_.”

Wickham was practiced in the art of waiting out Darcy’s extensive silences.

“You are not my father.”

“Of course not!”

“This is just a play.”

“Yes, dear.”

Darcy pointed a finger. “Never speak of this to anyone.”

They finished the entire Act 1 Scene 5.

...and every scene after, except which Wickham claimed were boring.

.

.

.

Fitzwilliam Darcy would very deeply rue Wickham’s death whence came into his life Elizabeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trifling idea I simply could not get out of my head. Bring on the comments!


	2. The Haunting of Elizabeth

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Elizabeth decided, was a very odd man.

He had seemed — almost normal — in the beginning, the night of the assembly where they met. Proud, handsome, decidedly stately, and — oh, _alright_ — compelling.

He was also, however, _extremely_ reserved. So much so that he had already spent half the assembly night stalking around the room and muttering to himself before his more sociable friend cajoled him to dance, mentioning herself as a prospective partner. As she was but a few meters from their position, she leaned forward in her seat, eagerly awaiting the taciturn man's response.

"She is tolerable, but—" coloured and broke off. It took several seconds, but his friend was patient, and he said, "I simply do not wish for an introduction."

"Why ever not?" said Bingley, utterly baffled. "Darcy, I know you are not convivial, but this is uncommonly mopish even for you."

"Bingley..."

"No, I will not have it! You've been in the strangest of moods for a year now, and I will snap you out of it if it is the last thing I do!"

With that, Bingley dragged a protesting Darcy to Jane, from where he dragged himself reluctantly but resignedly to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, half pitying and half enjoying the poor man, decided to tease him out his mood herself. It would be a great accomplishment, she thought, if she should wit and smile away a year's worth of mopishness.

Mr. Darcy, who initially appeared determined not to look at her at all, was soon startled into meeting her eye by astonishment. "You do not approve?"

"It would be impolitic of me to say that I do not _approve_ , per se, therefore I should instead say that I do not find it quite so appealing, and then prevaricate with insincere compliments and apologies, and _then_ withdraw my offensive opinion fully and say that I do not know what I was thinking. But it is too much effort. So I simply make sarcastic comments and feel all the more clever for it."

He smiled, faintly, and it was so endearing that she committed herself to effecting his smile.

She continued on this vein for the rest of the dance and many minutes after, easing him to opening enough to share some of his own opinions. She even sparked his laughter once!

It was in this manner of passing the evening — teasing, sparkling, all in such fine form that afterwards, seated in the carriage and tucked in her bed, she mulled over the dance with a great deal of complaisance, flattering herself that she had made a good impression.

They saw each other again at Lucas Lodge, to her great pleasure. When Sir William called her the brightest jewel in the country and insisted that he dance with her, he blushed and she found herself wondering if he could... possibly... _like_ her?

And so, burning up and incredibly self-conscious, she accepted the hand that Sir William held out for her. They began the dance, and, chastising herself for this uncharacteristic abashment, she raised her head to him and said something clever.

He gave a very short, clipped response.

She tried, again and again, making many references to their previous conversation and using the tactics that had worked, but he would barely even look at her! She thought that, perhaps, he was shy, and tried to have patience. But that patience disappeared when he said something very despicable.

"Shut up!" he hissed, in the middle of one of her speeches.

"Pardon?" It came out slowly and articulated all aghast, completing the picture her eyebrows made as they raised higher and higher.

"No," he said abruptly. "I did not mean you. I was... speaking to..."

She stared into his eyes unrelentingly, daring him to finish that sentence. He squirmed.

"I see," she said. If it were anyone else, she might tease him that he was hearing voices in his head. But he wasn't anyone else, so — "Good day, Mr. Darcy."

He did not bother to speak to her again.

Then, Jane took sick and had to stay at Netherfield. Elizabeth followed her there, positively dreading the company she was to come in contact with. Mr. Darcy never said anything offensive again, but his behavior took on a whole new layer of confusion.

He would look at her, sometimes, eyes popping, jaw clenching, and flush flooding his neck to his ears. She would wonder if there was anything offensive or scandalous on her person, as his eyes were often not quite on her face, and look down at herself. When she could find nothing the problem there — although that did not signify that _he_ could not find a problem — she would look behind her. Nothing. Was someone following her around and darting out of sight when she turned to look? It was a ridiculous notion, and after entertaining herself with the idea that maybe Mr. Hurst was a secret actor and illusionist, she dismissed it.

Indeed, to her increasing certainty of supposition, there was never anything. And Fitzwilliam Darcy still would not stop reacting to her.

Wounded by the revelation that his blushes were not of admiration but mortification, she resolved not to speak to him, which seemed to suit him just as well. It was in this manner of awkward, ambiguous co-existence that she found herself alone with him in the Netherfield library. He had stiffened upon her entrance, but she decided that, for all his posturing, she was as much a guest as he. So she took her book, plopped down on the seat adjacent to his, and pretended to read, all the while surreptitiously watching him out of the corner of her eye.

As she expected, it was a very perplexing sight.

He coloured, slowly, reliably. He flipped his page almost ferociously. He glanced at her furtively, only to catch her already staring. He balked.

At last, she could take it no longer.

"Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed, giving up all pretense and throwing down her book. The man jumped in his seat. "I understand that I am breaking decorum in addressing you thus, but you must forgive me. I desire an account of your behavior. Will you _please_ tell me what it is about me that you find so reprehensible?"

"Reprehensible?" he said blankly, looking for all the world like a spooked rabbit.

"Yes!" She resisted the urge to throw up her arms and settled for pressing her fingertips to her head instead. "Oh, do not give me that stupefied look! It has been clear to me almost from the very first that you have _some_ problem with me, for you are always glaring at me in discomposure!"

His lips struggled for several long seconds before he answered. "I do not have a problem with you."

"Oh, _really?"_ Her hands settled on her hips. Unconsciously, she leaned forward in her seat. It was a fact that her companion was _very_ conscious of. His eyes dropped, lingeringly, unmistakably — and of where to, we shall not speak.

She jerked backward and gasped, pressing her arms to her chest in alarm.

"No — no!" Frantic, stormy eyes locked back with hers. His hands went out to placate her. "'Tis not what you think!"

She stood abruptly, out of reach. "Good day, Mr. Darcy," she curtsied, and stalked hurriedly out of the library.

"No! Miss Elizabeth! Please! I am not—" There was a thud of a book thrown down to the floor. " _Augh! WICKHAM!"_

* * *

The Author could have described what exactly Wickham was doing incorporeally to Elizabeth to discompose Darcy so, but it is really far too indelicate to commit to paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! Your comments give me LIFE!


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